


Intellectual Rigour

by Siria



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-17
Updated: 2009-09-17
Packaged: 2017-10-03 19:07:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rodney never thought he'd say this, but the thing that irritates him the most about John and Jennifer being friends isn't that she lets him run around places with a hole in his gut, or that she always sides with John when Rodney is perhaps exaggerating a tad about his medical condition, or even that the two of them exchange lopsided high fives on team nights when they're both slightly tipsy and complaining about college football. Oh, no—it's the fact that Jennifer gave John her PubMed login details.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Intellectual Rigour

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [Aesc](http://aesc.livejournal.com/) on her birthday.

Rodney never thought he'd say this, but the thing that irritates him the most about John and Jennifer being friends isn't that she lets him run around places with a hole in his gut, or that she always sides with John when Rodney is perhaps exaggerating a tad about his medical condition, or even that the two of them exchange lopsided high fives on team nights when they're both slightly tipsy and complaining about college football. Oh, no—it's the fact that Jennifer gave John her PubMed login details.

"Hey, Rodney," John says, the quirking of his eyebrows made starker by the light from his laptop screen, "what about this one, this is so disgusting—these guys _bite off their own hands_. Like, compulsively. I'm emailing this to Ronon."

"Oh my god," Rodney says, putting a pillow over his head. It's been two hours since he got back to their quarters, and Rodney's had not one single orgasm since he got there. Wednesday night is their regular night for fooling around until John's knee starts to act up or Rodney's back complains and they finish things off with some sloppily enthusiastic handjobs, but with all the journal articles John's summarised for Rodney over the past while, Rodney doesn't think he'll ever have a hard-on again. "Could you please, please, stop talking?"

John doesn't reply. There's the dull sound of keys clicking, and then Rodney hears a low exclamation of _gross_. Rodney sighs heavily. "Wow, okay, so get this—there's this thing called foetus in foetu where your parasitic twin can grow _inside_ you. With hair and teeth and sometimes it stays alive for years. In your belly, kind of like some weird version of a Goa'uld."

Rodney pulls the pillow off his face and stares up at the ceiling. This is the price he pays for living with someone who has a penis—John might defy all kinds of stereotypes, possessing an inarticulate affection for both guns and sparkly curtains in equal measure, but when it comes to anything that's gross, disturbing and occasionally even gag-reflex-inducing, John's got to be as fascinated as any of the Marines. And Rodney's assessment of their mental acumen is well and loudly known.

He sits up in bed just in time to see John's eyes go wide with unholy glee. "Get this, Rodney—your spleen can _wander_ in your abdomen. It's an actual condition. Wandering spleen. You want to see the ultrasound pictures?"

"No," Rodney says, with the utmost dignity, even if he does wrap his arms around his middle. "I do _not_ want to see any pictures. Nor do I want to hear about any other bizarre medical conditions, or listen to anecdotes, or receive any further mysteriously titled .pdf files in my inbox which, when opened, turn out to be about the, the _Plantman of Timbuktu_."

"Treeman of Indonesia," John says, sounding just a little sulky, but he closes the laptop and sets it on the low dresser by their bed.

"_Thank_ you," Rodney says with genuine gratitude, lying down beside him and thinking the lights off. If there isn't going to be sex, there can at least be quiet and relaxation and soft blankets and—

"Thought you were all about the intellectual curiosity."

"_Excuse_ me? You have heard me enumerate my degrees on at least one occasion, right? I am all about the intellectual curiosity!"

"I'm just saying," John says, and oh, when he gets that nasal, Rodney knows he's feeling pissy, "this is actual science, Rodney. With experiments and cool stuff and... things."

"It is disturbing, is what it is! I hereby forbid any future discussions of, of zombie hands or parasitic babies or wandering whatevers within the four walls of the room." Rodney sketches out a boundary zone with his hands. "Or, for that matter, no more of you and Ronon discussing Satedan trench foot over breakfast. No more, that's it, we're done, I would like to sleep without nightmares, and no, I do _not_ want to know what you think that implies about my intellectual _rigour_."

There's a pause of approximately ten seconds, and then John starts to snigger.

"What? _What_?" Rodney snaps, trying not to calculate the efficacy of smothering a grown man with a slightly flattened pillow.

"You said rigour."

Rodney stares at him for a long, long moment. John smirks back at him. "You are so very lucky that I like you despite the fact that it's Wednesday and I've had no orgasms and you _suck_."

"Well," John says, scrunching up his face as if thinking very hard, and really, this was one of those times where Rodney was torn between punching him and kissing him until John made that funny little gasping noise in the back of his throat, "Not _yet_."

It being a Wednesday, kissing won out.


End file.
